


candlelight, cold blood

by nightlight_has_regrets



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Flirting, PSA: Do Not Meddle In Shadow Magic Kids, Partial Nudity, Triumphant Wilson - Freeform, at least at the beginning of this, but when he does stabilize..., canon-typical creepiness, it's not necessarily a good thing, wilson is not...the most stable individual
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 17:00:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17943641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightlight_has_regrets/pseuds/nightlight_has_regrets
Summary: Heavily inspired by BamSara's story Nightly Shenanigans. Set in between chapters five and six.it doesn't matter who you were before the Throne. you're still you. just infinitely more dark and twisted.do not mistake him for just the Scientist, Firestarter. he is the King now.





	candlelight, cold blood

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Nightly Shenanigans (And Other Wild Adventures)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17359919) by [BamSara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BamSara/pseuds/BamSara). 



> i...took way longer to write this than i meant to. and now it's not finished. there's another chapter coming.  
> don't ask me what happened, because i really don't know.
> 
> title is from the song Angel, by Digital Daggers.
> 
> (edited 28/2/2019 for clarity)

_Candlelight, blood is cold,_

_ticking clocks, sun-gold,_

_I can hear Them turning round_

_as I lay here on the ground._

_Racing heart, poison woods,_

_Shattered dreams, nowhere to turn,_

_I can feel the water fall,_

_from my eyes, and down the wall._

_I don’t know if anyone can hear me…_

-Angel, Digital Daggers

 

* * *

 

Despite his attempts, the image keeps slipping to the surface of his mind.  
  
It is most certainly not a memory. But he knows exactly which true memory it steals from.

And the fact that he knows so much about the Firestarter’s unclothed build and musculature is _her_ fault. She is the one who pulled off her cardigan without a second thought or even a moment taken to inform him of her plan. He is, after all, a Gentleman as well as the King, and therefore any level of nudity should be kept private. It was only _polite._  
Unfortunately (in this case), being the King meant he was more than human. Things he’d never noticed before, like how flawed and vague his memory had been, were different. He could now remember images near-perfectly if he chose. And sometimes, apparently, even if he didn’t.

So he knows exactly what the Firestarter looks like shirtless, and exactly what she looks like while wearing only his suit jacket above the waist, letting it hang open in a mockery of modesty.

But those memories are of a sick woman who looked half dead. No matter how conventionally attractive a human might have judged her, illness taints beauty and makes it revolting. It’s science, a sick potential mate was an unhealthy potential mate, and therefore a poor choice to reproduce with, as any offspring would be more likely to die, rendering the attempt to preserve one’s genetic line fruitless.

  
  
The image is _not._

 __  
  
Wilson closed his eyes, allowing it to surface again, in order to note the major differences. Knowledge was power, and he would banish this, this, _intrusion,_ one way or another.

There doesn’t seem to be a background, but he’s not certain on that. It’s hard to pay attention to things like that when she’s standing in front of him, looking like that.

This time, she looks to be perfectly healthy, though he can see how the skin over her jugular shifts a little faster than normal. She has her hair in tied back in her normal pigtails, but they’re looser than normal. Perfect, a part of him notes, for untying quickly.  
  
No stockings, shoes, or garter belt. He’s assuming on the last one, because while normally those are wrapped above the hips, and her midriff is bare, she does still have a skirt on, and it could be under that. Her legs are rather paler than the rest of her, likely due to always being covered.  
  
Honestly, the fact that he was so blatantly looking over a very under-dressed woman would at one time have made Wilson turn all sorts of bright shades of red. Now, he was of the principle that not staring directly at her chest was, in itself, fairly refined, given how he was trying to gather all the information he needed as quickly as possible. This wasn’t real, after all.

 

But there was no avoiding the rest of this forever, and he let his gaze slowly move upwards.

 

Again, paler skin than on her arms and face. And little softness to be found on her, though years of cruel living hadn’t kept her from developing curves in the right places. Nothing extravagant, but still very pleasing in its own ways. A little higher, and he can see the very apparent lack of a bra, but his jacket is hanging on her in such a way that she is, technically, covered. He gets no more than an idea of what she looks like beneath the jacket.  
  
He wants to touch her. It’s ridiculous, she isn’t even here, but that doesn’t make a difference. He wants to run his hands over her, feel the fragile skin under his palms, learn how she reacts when he traces each vertebra, slowly working upwards until he can push the loose cloth off her shoulders and see. He wants to take that proud little smile she has, the one she always gets when she’s found a way to tease him, to try and hold something over him, and break it into gasping.  
  
_“You look like you want to eat me.”_ It’s such a _Willow_ thing to say that it almost makes him question whether or not this actually is real somehow. But he knows it isn’t.  
  
Still, in this little imagined scene, he lets himself bring one clawed hand up to her throat, lets his knuckles brush over the side of her neck, resting on her pulse. He lets himself take pleasure in the way her defiant expression wavers slightly. Lets himself grin.  
  
_“Maybe I should. After all, you are making my job so very easy for me, aren’t you?”_ He leans in slightly, knuckles still on the beating artery. _“All I’d have to do is turn out the lights. You aren’t even armored.”_ Lightly, he strokes his claws down her neck, not breaking the skin. _“You’ve left yourself so very, very…vulnerable.”_

The figment of his imagination shivers ever so slightly, but her expression is still challenging. 

 _“I’m not weak, or stupid. You wouldn’t want me if I was, would you?_ _You want a challenge._ _”_ She smiles back at him suddenly, and there is something **wrong** about that smile, something utterly inhuman, and it’s enough to break the illusion.

  
  
It’s just him, ~~a~~ ~~s much as it’s ever just him~~ , as Wilson sits on the Throne, fighting with himself because of _her._

 

He snarls, hands tightening on the arms of the Throne. Oh, this is just like that insolent woman, and he doubts she even knows she’s done this. It is just like her to get under his skin, constantly irritating him, distracting him. He could picture the look she’d get if she knew about this. That little smirk that comes when she’s so proud of herself.

She’s really rather lucky, Wilson notes, that he’s as tolerant as he is. She takes great pleasure in pushing the limits of his patience. The Firestarter seems to have forgotten who _exactly_ is the King of this world. At the end of the day, she, along with the rest of this world, with everything else in the Constant, belongs to him.

This isn’t the first time he’s wanted to wipe that smile off her face. It wouldn’t take much to have her scared, would it? Pressing his claws into the soft skin of her throat until the smallest drops of blood well up, and red does show up wonderfully against her skin. It’d be hard for even her to keep up that sarcastic attitude, and just the thought of it is-

Stop. She’s his test subject, nothing more-

  
But he wants to show her just who is in control, wants to make her admit to it-

 

This is the exact opposite of what he was trying to achieve, his goal is to focus on his research, not these ridiculous imaginings-

 

He’s the bloody King, his goal is whatever he decides it is-

  
  
With a low growl, he slams both of the dissenting sides of this…argument, down. He’s done entertaining this foolishness, he has duties he has been neglecting because of this, and he will not allow that to continue. The caves need tending, it seems like the Bunnymen and rock lobsters have survived (he’s starting to suspect the latter don’t breath, at least not in a manner normal to mammalians), but the depths worms he’s uncertain of.

 

The thought of both _water_ and _red_ brings back memories of that stupid silk robe that had been in the fucking package. And what ground he had gained on starting to do anything productive is now completely gone, and he _thinks_ he’s blushing. At the very least, his face is hot.  
  
He had very purposely been trying to repress that memory, mostly because this one was entirely his fault. In his defense, he hadn’t known that silk, or at least, that particular silk, was translucent when soaked.

At least she hadn’t been able to hear the shadow’s laughter. Wilson doubts he would have been able to handle it if she could.

  
It had taken far too much coercing to get Them to allow her another package and then had taken even more once she’d opened it to find a pair of sneakers to convince Them to change that to something actually helpful and not mocking.  
  
Of course, it had been a _black_ silk loungewear, and _maybe_ he was being overly suspicious, but he was still convinced that it had been a deliberate callback to loaning her his coat. Except, again, it wasn’t her fault this time.

Wilson did not allow himself to do something so ungentlemanly as to slouch in the Throne, but he did let himself…relax. Yes. And maybe fume just a little.  
  
They were laughing at him, but he didn’t respond. Yet. Focus on something else, _anything_ else, provided it wasn’t either of the incidents-  
  
The memory of brushing her hair returned to him. It seemed like the best of his admittedly few options for focus.  
  
It had been...nice. Just sitting, working out the tangles and sand. Calming, in the way some people found peace in building puzzles. In one way, it had felt like when he pulled at the threads of the Weave, the universe itself spread before him to reshape as he willed. But it had been different. Working the Weave was to lose yourself in it until you could only faintly acknowledge that you were a person, that you existed, until you had finished crushing the stars between your fingertips to simply decant the dust.

 

Brushing Willow’s hair hadn’t done that. It had made him feel… _more._ He wasn’t lost, he was more. More present, more alive. Less aware in a way, a side effect that had come with how focused he’d been on just her, on the answers she held. He’d been less aware of Them, to some extent, and to a far greater extent less aware of the Constant around him, it’s inner workings that were always present to him had faded into the background of his mind and the Constant had shrunk to the tiny oasis, enclosed by wind and sand.

 

He wanted to go back. It was quiet there, and tranquil, and everything he wanted was there.

 

…why couldn’t he? After all, the Firestarter needed to be put back in her place some. If she consumed his thoughts, well, it was only fair that he returned the favor, wasn’t it?

 

Slowly, Wilson smiled, sharp teeth on full display. The argument was resolved. There would be Science, oh yes. The Firestarter was his test subject, and a frankly untapped source of experimentation since he was being honest with himself. He’d been far too dismissive of any tests that focused solely on her in the past. She’d taken advantage of that, growing cocky and defiant. Not that he didn’t enjoy her feistiness, but she’d been allowed too much. It was time to remind her just who the one in charge was.

 

Who said there was no pleasure in ruling?

 

**Author's Note:**

> orz
> 
> i hope you liked it, Sara. i'm going to hide under a rock now.


End file.
